dreamt I had a child, closet, cupboard. She fit into my pocket, drawer, locker, locket, the lumber room, attic. I dreamt she got lost. safe, heart, chamber, glove compartment, purse, backpack. Hutch, hat, I couldn’t find my tiny dream child anywhere, hole, milk-carton. I was totally freaked-out, phone, film-canister, code, teeth, fingerprints, freezer, the cloud. Uterus, I kept having the same dream, house, museum, vessel, mouth, memory. The dream of losing my tiny dream child, orifice, grey-matter, bottle, bowl, stomach. Then I had a real child, language, seeds, imprints, petroglyphs, DNA, music, a puzzle. She doesn't fit into my pocket, portfolio, pyramid, futures, solar panels, soil, carry-on.
KIRSTEN MOSHER is a visual artist and writer living in Western Massachusetts. Her work has been featured at numerous institutions, including the Venice Biennale; Public Art Fund, NY; Moma, New York; Los Angeles County Museum of Art and Frac Pay-de-La-Loire, Carquefou, France. Her recently published chapbooks are Zero (minutes to) Home, Selektion, and Plea$e Steal Me for 100 Plus Dollar-zz, Lily Poetry Review Books. Her stories can be found in Minor Literature[s], and Exacting Clam, Sonder, among others. Her series Automotive Stories occasionally show up in the Automotive sections of local newspapers.
